I Believe in John Watson
by MonsterOfCookies
Summary: Things were almost normal at 221b Baker Street, except for the fact that one resident was dead.


The charred remains of the house stood gloomy in the weak, mid October light. The overcast skies did nothing to improve the friendliness of the burnt out shell, and John shivered as a gust of wind swept over his collar.  
"The neighbours reported it in the early hours," Lestrade began to brief them, "but we've only been able to look at it now. The fire department are already in, they're doing me a favour by letting you two in,"

Sherlock scoffed, and Lestrade gave him a look.  
"I'll probably owe him about ten favours once you're done with him," he added, and John privately agreed.

Dressed in overalls, the three entered the building, Sherlock's quick, bright eyes scouring every nook and cranny for clues.  
"It was a professional," he began, as they walked into the room where the fire began. "Used a delayed accelerant to buy themselves time, get themselves out." He bent down and sniffed the source of the fire, and John tried to ignore the strange looks the fire crew were giving them.

Suddenly, Sherlock straightened, eyes wide, looking disconcertingly worried.  
"Moriarty," was all he said, before beckoning John to leave.

"But what about the case? What do you have?" Lestrade called angrily, and Sherlock frowned as the two of them made their way out.  
"Male, 6'5" judging by the tread of his shoes, which I saw on the mud in the grass as we went in. Professional, used materials typical of an inmate, so you're looking for someone who's done time. They're also reminiscent of the bomb jackets Moriarty used a few months ago."

John shuddered at the memory of the bomb strapped tightly to his chest, the stench of chlorine, the fear rattling his bones. Sherlock glanced at him out of the corner of his eye but he looked away, knowing he'd just find confusion and possibly derision in the sociopath's eyes. Sherlock wouldn't understand why the moment haunted him so much, why the memory reminded him so horribly of the countless suicide bombers he'd seen in Afghanistan.

Lestrade nodded at Sherlock's deductions, sighing at the prospect of dealing with Moriarty again, suddenly looking grey and weary. John suddenly felt bad for him, having to work those long nights, same as him, but without knowing what was going on, and having to fill in countless paperwork. They shared a glance, in which John tried to convey some of his thoughts. The detective inspector nodded, steeling himself with a deep breath, and turned to give orders to his team while Sherlock led John away.

*

"Why is he suddenly burning buildings? It's a bit small scale for him, isn't it?" John asked, and Sherlock frowned, fingers pressed together under his chin.  
"He's sending some sort of message. Probably reinforcing things he said at the pool."

John swallowed as the memories came back to hit him like a punch. Chlorine. The feeling of explosives tied tightly to his chest. The sight of the laser on Sherlock's forehead, unsteady, unprofessional. Anything could have set it off. John suddenly frowned. Unprofessional.

"Sherlock,"

But Sherlock was reading a text and suddenly started blabbering about targets and arsonists and Moriarty, none of which John registered as he started talking himself.

"Have to call Mycroft-"  
"It doesn't make sense-"  
"-idiotic glutton that he is, he might come in handy-"  
"-why would he hire someone unprofessional-"  
"-if he's going to target here-"  
"-he's a crime lord, it doesn't make sense-"  
"-best to be prepared, can't have anything happening to my skull - come on John, stop talking, let's go,"  
"Wait, what? Skull? I was talking about Moriarty!"  
"Me too, now come on!"

John was utterly confused but followed anyway, madly chasing his consulting detective down the street, trying not to wonder how close they were to death.

* * *

"I need to go to St Bart's," Sherlock said, some hours later, a charred lump of metal in his hands.  
"Alright," said John with a nod. "I won't be needed there, will I?" The doctor had the full intention of sitting down and having a nice cup of tea and a long read of his book after the hectic day they'd had.  
"Probably not. See if you can follow up the Truman lead while I process this, text me what you find,"

John nodded with a little sigh as they got in separate taxis, giving Truman's address. Hopefully they'd have their main suspect in custody before long.

* * *

Truman wasn't home and John was tired, so he texted Sherlock to tell him the news and went home. Mrs Hudson was out, and Sherlock was still at the lab, so John went to put the kettle on. He sat in the living room with his tea, wrote up some notes about the case, and then yawned widely. He decided to at least have an apple before going up to bed, despite not really being hungry.

He munched on his apple as he climbed the stairs to his room, looking forwards to his bed and a good night's sleep. Perhaps. Depending on what time the madman was back. He finally reached the top and yawned as he opened the door, fumbling for the light switch. He flicked it on. There was a slight delay, as usual, before the light turned on as he took a few steps into the room.

The world exploded.

John screamed as the force of the explosion threw him back against a wall, pain lancing through his head and back as he slumped on the floor, the roaring blaze becoming stifling within seconds. John's heart pounded and he scratched at the floor as his lungs filled with smoke. He was panicking, writhing, trying to get to the door, but it was ablaze, impeding him, he was going to die here, he was going to suffocate and burn.

Memories flooded him, lying in a desert, bleeding out; lying on the damp pool floor with a bomb jacket lying ten metres away. His heart was pounding, he was gasping for air, unable to stand, flames licking closer and closer.

And then the floor was falling through and he was falling down into the living room with blazing furniture and plaster.

His last thoughts as he slammed into the ground, trapped in a burning building, were of Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

His phone was buzzing. Why was it always buzzing? Was it John trying to contact him? Mycroft being annoying? Lestrade with a lead? He sighed and asked John to get it from his pocket before remembering John wasn't there. John was following a lead on Truman, probably terribly, but if it made him feel useful...

"Sherlock,"

He looked up from the microscope, his eyes hurt anyway, and glanced at Molly.  
"Truman's been arrested, Greg caught him running down Oxford street. Dreadful business, people had to be sent to hospital..."

Sherlock nodded and stepped away from the microscope, no longer needing it, and was pulling on his jacket with Molly hovering nearby when he realised.

"Down Oxford Street?"

Molly, perplexed, nodded, and Sherlock frowned.  
"Wasn't John-"

He stopped suddenly and his eyes widened, scrambling to get his phone out of his pockets. He'd been right, John had texted, Lestrade had texted, and he had four missed calls from Mycroft.

He opened Johns first.  
'Truman not home, I'm tired, getting some sleep."

Getting some sleep.

At home.

Where he'd told him not to go.

He'd been babbling nonsense about professionals at the time but surely...surely he must have heard him tell him that 221b was Moriarty's next target.

Sherlock stared at his phone in sudden horror.

"John," he said in a choked voice, dropping his phone in his pocket. Molly looked alarmed.  
"What, what's happened?" She asked fretfully, but Sherlock was out the door, heart racing, bringing his phone out again, dialling frantically.

"Sherlock-" but Sherlock cut his brother off.

"Mycroft, did you secure Baker Street? I need to know if-"

"Sherlock! You have repeatedly expressed your desires to remain unguarded and now Baker Street is in flames,"

Sherlock froze, his hand gripping his phone as he flagged down a taxi with the other.

"But John, John's in there, he's after John-" Sherlock's heart was racing as though he'd been in a desperate chase, but he was just starting one, a desperate chase for John to be alive, to be safe, he'd be lost without his blogger-

"I called the fire crew immediately. You're lucky I had you under some form of surveillance anyway, otherwise it could have been much worse."

"You mean your minions called the fire crew." Sherlock determinedly ignored Mycroft's know-it-all tone, even as he replied.

"No. I did."

That rendered him speechless, but that thought was soon pushed out of his head. It could still be too late for John, he could be trapped, burning, but no, John was a soldier, a survivor. He stared out of the window, looking for the plume of smoke, but could not yet see where the limited stars were obscured, and he continued to hope, continued to beg that John be alive, safe, his hands were shaking, he was trying to think of all the possibilities before he had all the data, his mind was a mess, his palace was covered in soot, whole rooms obscured by smoke, and the room for John was burning entirely, and it _hurt_, it physically hurt his head and his chest that John was burning, there was nothing he could do-

Baker Street was in view now, and panic seemed to grip him. Mycroft's voice was a hundred miles away, bleating in his ear, but what did he know, what did he know about caring on this level, John understood him more than anyone, tolerated him, he was his _friend, _he simply _could not die_, he was strong, he'd survived war, he'd survived living with Sherlock, he'd survived Moriarty once, he could do it again, he just had to hope...

The cab arrived at Baker Street but could not go much further because it was blocked by various emergency vehicles. Lestrade and his police car were there, as was Mycroft's sleek, black car, and the two men stood next to each other, backs rigid, watching the fire fighters try to control the blaze.

Sherlock ran the remaining way, coat billowing, heart racing in terror. His own negligence had put his John in danger, if he'd just said something...Sherlock felt his eyes stinging but blinked it away as a second police officer tried to stop him approaching. Lestrade noticed a moment later and waved him away as Sherlock shouted profanities at the incompetent officer; couldn't he see John was in danger, couldn't he sense he needed to be there?

Sherlock rushed next to his brother and the detective inspector, eyes staring hopelessly up at the blaze. Mycroft was frowning, Greg looked anxious.

"They do know John is in there?" He asked after a second, not taking his eyes off his home. He didn't care about the experiments, the papers, he just cared about John, strong, fragile, sturdy, breakable, warrior, ordinary John. Alone, maybe trapped, maybe unconscious, maybe dead, but it wasn't worth thinking about, he had to believe his John was alive-

"Some of them went in earlier, haven't come out, I'm assuming they're looking for him. Top floor's collapsed-"  
"-his room. Where he was going to sleep."  
"Christ,"

Sherlock clutched at the fabric on the inside of his pockets. The three stood, watching, waiting; Sherlock felt like he'd run a mile, his heart was beating so fast. The heat of the flames licked at their faces and Sherlock couldn't bear to think what it was like for his fantastic blogger. He could picture so many scenarios with the data presented, mathematically calculating the rate of the burning and how long it had taken the top floor to collapse and how long John had been trapped in there for, and he couldn't delete them, his mind whirring frantically, it wouldn't stop, his breathing rate was increasing, _John could not be dead_, he would not allow it-

"Sherlock."

Mycroft's voice was, unusually, gentle, unpatronising and welcoming. Lestrade and Sherlock both looked at him in surprise, Sherlock's breathing slowing again. He clenched and unclenched his fists inside his pockets, looking back at the slowly diminishing flames, eyes fixed on the ladder where a fireman would surely come out with John...

Mrs Hudson arrived before they got John out, fretting anxiously, and Lestrade made her sit in the passenger seat of his police car, because she looked ready to faint. Mycroft was busy assuring her any damage would be paid for by him when they finally, _finally_ appeared with John.

Sherlock started forward as the fireman climbed down the ladder but Mycroft's arm held him back. The four of them watched with baited breath, and Sherlock was cataloguing everything he could, assessing, seeing if he was alive while simultaneously thinking about all the things he never got to experiment with John, all the variables he could have manipulated.

The moment they were off the ladder, the fire fighter ran with him to the ambulance, shouting information at the medics. He'd been barely breathing when he pulled him out, lungs filled with smoke, and now Sherlock saw his horrific, twisted flesh, burned beyond recognition, black, and his eyes stayed fixed on him even when he couldn't see him due to the medics hovered round, he stopped listening, everything become a ringing in his ears, he felt ill, like he was falling, John couldn't be dead, he couldn't-

But he was.

There was no doubt about it, the paramedics weren't hovering over him for long before they pronounced him dead, and now Sherlock really was falling, dizzy, to the floor, no one to catch him, no one to be there for him when he needed it, no one to buy milk or make tea or shoot cabbies or wear ridiculous jumpers.

John was his reflector of light and now he was gone and everything was overwhelmingly dark, and Lestrade was leaning against his car looking extremely pale and Mycroft was lending him a hand and he saw _sympathy_ and he realised Mycroft _did _understand, but at the same time, he didn't, he couldn't, and there was a rushing in his ears, the data had stopped but his mind hadn't, and Sherlock found himself pulled upright but didn't let go of his brother, staring wide eyed in shock at the huddle gathered around John.

"John," he heard himself saying. "John, no," but then his throat closed up and he struggled to breathe, let alone speak. He remembered the time he had been strangled by a gang member of the Black Lotus Trade and didn't remember it feeling as bad as this, because John was _gone_, and Sherlock didn't know how to process this.

Mycroft was tugging him to his car with the arm still clinging on to him for support, and Lestrade followed, supporting Mrs Hudson, because he was shaking too much to be fit to drive. The back of the black car was big enough to accommodate the four of them and they sat in silence as they drove...somewhere. Sherlock was too shaken to care _where_.

What was he going to do now? He could continue consulting but it was be so _boring_ without John there. How would he cope going back to how he was before? Lestrade was fine as a friend but John was his _best _friend, his flatmate, the one who didn't mind his eyeballs and his demands and his overall incapability of being a normal human being. John was _gone_, he was _dead_, and it was all _Sherlock's _fault, how had he allowed this to happen, how had he brushed it off so quickly that John had not been listening, why hadn't he shaken him and forced him to listen, this wouldn't have happened, and Mycroft would have been called and everything would have been okay but it _wasn't_ and for _God's_ sake he had never felt this guilty and horrible in his life.

"He didn't listen," he gasped, "I told him but he wasn't listening, and I didn't tell you, I didn't tell anyone, I knew it was going to happen, but John didn't, and now he's-he's—" and then to his alarm Sherlock started crying and he hit his elbow against the soft leather seat, trying to force the tears back, but John was _dead_, his dignity didn't matter any more...

"Sherlock," Lestrade said gently. "It's Moriarty's fault, not yours. That bastard doesn't know when to stop,"

And Sherlock was grateful to see the anger in Lestrade's eyes, grateful to see someone else understood, somewhat, even if he and John hadn't been all that close, a few pints now and then, Lestrade was angry for him and that was good, he wasn't alone, but he _was_, no one had this feeling in their mind like it was crumbling the same as 221b, no one could see the smoke filling the hallways of his mind palace, fogging it, it was cracked, dirty, broken, the data wasn't working, one room stood out, the one in flames, _John's_ room, like the one he'd died in, he just wanted to sleep, a luxury Sherlock rarely allowed him, and it had _killed _him.

They arrived at what was unmistakably Mycroft's house but Sherlock didn't complain once, and he barely heard Lestrade awkwardly mumbling that he didn't really have a reason to stay, or Mycroft's reply, he was sprinting up the staircase, finding a room, _any room_, not Mycroft's, but this one, this one was fine, and he closed the door with a shaking hand and sat on the edge of the bed and just cried, not dramatically, and John would have been proud of him for managing to make something he did not dramatic, and he thought of John all through that night, and no one disturbed him as he tried to put out the flames and clean out his mind palace.

He fell asleep dreaming of smoke and soldiers.

* * *

John was unsure of his current state.

He meant that in the broadest way possible, not just mentally, but physically. He didn't know where he was, what he was, what he was feeling. He was just aware of a lot of noise, a lot of activity, and yet there being something _missing_.

He was in a weird half state; he could see, but he couldn't pick anything out or identify it. He could hear, but he couldn't understand words or identify sounds. His head was a confused mess and he couldn't quite remember how he got here or where he was supposed to be.

Staring around hopelessly did nothing to help him, but he didn't know what _would _help. He didn't know much, to be fair, and that reminded him of something. He didn't know much, was a bit dim, a bit of an idiot...idiot...why did that word bring back half images, half sounds, half memories?

John was confused. He was sure his name was John, he was 5'7" and he had blonde hair and blue eyes. He _knew_ that. He didn't know how, because he couldn't see his face or measure his height, but he just knew. He was, apparently, an idiot, but again, he didn't know how he had come to that conclusion.

The scene around him was getting less and less busy the longer he stood here, and his head was beginning to clear a tiny bit. He was...outside. Fresh air, open space, outside. He was standing next to somewhere very familiar but he didn't know why or where he was. It didn't match the rest of the surroundings, it was blackened, half the height of the other things. But why?

John kept looking around. Colours, he could remember colours, and shapes. Huge, square, grey blocks, like the blackened one he was next to. Lots of black...vehicles...cars? Taxis. He remembered taxis. He associated taxis with being an idiot, and with the charred...building!...next to him.

He remembered numbers and letters. Meaningless ones on the cars driving past, but a single, gold plated figure on the door; 221b. Memories, so many memories, there, but not quite. He remembered people, not specific people, but now he could identify them, figures strolling straight past him, avoiding his place in the middle of the pavement. This was surreal.

A huge black dog walked towards him, his owner pulling him back. The dog took one look at him and whimpered, cowering. The dog reminded him of idiocy and cabs and 221b, but he didn't know why it was so scared of him. Dogs had liked him, he thought. He had been a person, like them. He still was, had legs, arms, feet. But the dog was scared of him and the owner was puzzled, looking straight at John.

"There's nothing there, boy," he recognised speech now, but the speech was confusing, he was definitely standing here. He reached out to pet the dog but to his utter astonishment, his hand simply drifted through.

John swallowed and stared around. Was he a ghost? He tentatively reached for the walls of 221b, and yes, his hand went straight through. He took his first step, and somehow, didn't go through the floor, just through the wall, stepping into the hallway, covered in soot but not quite burned. He went on, up the stairs, somehow knowing his way, to the living room, and suddenly, pain washed through him, lancing through his head as memories crowded in.

_"Please, god, let me live...Harry, you have to sort this out, you're an alcoholic, for god's sake...come on, who'd want me for a flatmate?...The name's Sherlock Holmes, the address is 221b Baker Street...oh, god yes...proving a point...Dinner?...You had a row. With a machine...you stink of disinfectant... it's just a kid...I'm going to burn the heart out of you...why didn't Moriarty hire a professional..."_

Then pain, he remembered pain, burning pain, scorching pain, he was dying, he _died_, just outside, where he'd been standing. John would have been breathing heavily and his heart would have been beating ridiculously fast, if he'd been alive. But he wasn't alive, 221b was in ruins and Sherlock...

John didn't know what to do now. He had no idea where Sherlock was, or what exactly he was supposed to be doing here. People couldn't see him, couldn't feel him, and presumably couldn't hear him, so what use was he here? If he found Sherlock, what would he do? Talk to a deaf ear?

A horrible thought occurred to John; what if Moriarty had gotten to Sherlock, too? What if Sherlock was dead? That great mind, dust? John felt a rush of anxiety, and ran back downstairs, wondering where on earth he'd be staying. Possibly Mycroft might have coerced him into staying at his house, but where on earth was that?!

There was nothing for it, he sighed resignedly, and started walking to New Scotland yard to see if he could somehow catch Sherlock there. Just to see if he was alive. John didn't really have a doubt Sherlock would start on the case again, despite John being gone; he'd done it alone before, and he certainly hadn't been much help when he was actually alive, so he'd probably just jump straight back into it.

Would he grieve? At first, John wanted to say he didn't know, but suddenly memories of the pool came back to him, and he remembered Sherlock's reaction to John being strapped to a bomb. No, Sherlock definitely cared, but John didn't know much more than that.

It took him longer than he would have thought to walk to New Scotland Yard, and when he got there, he was bloody grateful he was both invisible and couldn't feel anything, because it was chucking it down with rain and he would have looked a right weirdo standing out here. John wondered how long he'd be standing here for; could be hours, could be days. But John would wait, wait for proof Sherlock was alive, because Sherlock _needed_ to be alive. John desperately cared for Sherlock despite everything, and the thought of the mad genius dead opened up a deep chasm inside him that he'd rather keep closed.

For the first time, John wondered about his own funeral. His sister might show, drunk off her arse, with no way to get better now. Sherlock might show, and John could imagine his impassive face. Lestrade, perhaps. Perhaps not Anderson or Donovan, or even Dimmock. Mike Stamford. John honestly couldn't think of anyone else.

It was a lonely two days standing outside. People came and went and John was barely watching anymore, just listening. He'd know when Sherlock arrived, he just would, with his dramatic flair and his baritone voice. He hadn't seen Lestrade, and wasn't sure what to make of that. He just stood, alone with his own thoughts, feeling himself sink into depression. But after two days, Sherlock finally arrived, and John instantly hated himself for ever thinking Sherlock didn't care.

Because John could see right through that stony facade into the eyes of a man who had lost almost everything. John could see Sherlock's pain, could see how his death had affected him, and guilt wrenched him, turning him inside out, upside down, as he watched the tall figure walk stoically alongside a drawn-looking Lestrade towards the doors to New Scotland Yard.

Neither Lestrade nor Sherlock said anything as John followed them inside, relief washing over him to see Sherlock very much alive as he walked through the building, never seeing John walking _right next to him_, and it practically killed him. John realised how stupid that sounded a moment after he thought it. _You're already dead, idiot._ But god, it hurt, being unable to touch, be touched, or be heard...Sherlock didn't know he was there, he'd move on...was he supposed to follow Sherlock until he...moved on, or whatever? _Why was he here?_

John followed them into Lestrade's little area, where his team sat, and watched them all give Sherlock looks, a strange mixture of hatred and sympathy. He heard one of them whisper, "already over it" and felt the urge to punch them in the face. Sherlock wasn't over it. They were just fucking bad detectives if they couldn't see how much pain Sherlock was in.

They then moved to Lestrade's office, and John tried to slip through the gap in the door before remembering he could walk right through it.

"So we found the arsonist," Lestrade said heavily as he sat in his chair, and Sherlock sat opposite, staring blankly at his desk. "But he's certainly not talking, not unless Mycroft-" he then paused, but John felt certain he knew what he was talking about. Not unless Mycroft and/or the other departments 'interrogated' him.

"We won't catch him, Lestrade," Sherlock's voice was deeper than John remembered, and he wondered if it had something to do with the emotions bubbling behind the surface. Lestrade looked uncomfortable, running his hands through his hair.

"I thought as much. But we can still...try...?"

But Sherlock was shaking his head and John sighed at the gloomy expression on his face. He just wanted to smack some sense into him, make him his usual, snappy, sarcastic self. That was Sherlock, the man he'd fallen in-

John tried to stop that train of thought but quickly rendered it useless. He'd known for a long time that he was in love with Sherlock Holmes, despite everything, and wanted to kiss him as much as he wanted to punch him.

But he'd never be able to, now.

John wished he could cry, but ghosts couldn't do much. Just see...observe.

John wondered if Sherlock would be proud.

* * *

It was three weeks before they managed to clear up 221b properly. John did not watch that. He followed Sherlock, everywhere, anywhere he went, wishing angrily, desperately that he could see him. He talked to him sometimes, but often felt like an idiot. "Sherlock, don't do experiments on Mycroft's kitchen table, he'll throw you out. Sherlock, don't store toes in Mrs Hudson's cupboard, she's not that tolerant. Sherlock, stop calling Lestrade stupid, he's good for a non-mad-genius-detective."

His words fell upon deaf ears but he kept on, not all the time, but when it felt most natural. "Mycroft isn't going to buy you milk, Sherlock. Mrs Hudson isn't your housekeeper, there'll be a limit to the amount of tea she makes you. Lestrade will throw you off this bloody case if you keep on."

John sat in Sherlock's bedroom in Mycroft's house, watching him when he slept, watching him play his beautiful violin, a sad, lamenting song, usually. John often wished he could cry, but he could not. Once, he shouted at Sherlock, for being so stupid, for not seeing, not observing, but Sherlock started crying, and John didn't know what to do. Sherlock could not hear him but he tried to comfort him anyway; he felt guilty anyway, even if he had not made him cry.

221b looked decidedly cleaner now; John's fingers flexed and unflexed as he saw the skull on the mantelpiece, his armchair specked with soot they had been unable to clean, but most of it had been wrecked by his old bedroom falling. The kitchen was intact but they'd cleaned up Sherlock's experiments, and John laughed at his exasperated huff. It felt good to laugh again.

John never spoke to Sherlock when other people were around; only when it was just the two of them, alone. He started talking to Sherlock in 221b as well, once it had been refurbished, and it felt much more natural. At crime scenes, he would offer his stupid advice and Sherlock would just deduce the hell out of them and leave John feeling stupid but _happy_.

Things were almost normal at 221b Baker Street, except for the fact that one resident was dead.

Then one day, John heard the familiar creak of the stairs, while Sherlock sat on his laptop, researching something, and John stood quietly by the kitchen door as Mrs Hudson walked in, a tray of tea in hand.

"Here you are, dear," she smiled, patting his hand as she placed the tray down on the new coffee table. Sherlock didn't say anything and John, out of habit, said sternly,

"Sherlock, thank Mrs Hudson for the tea,"

And then Mrs Hudson stood up, her face contorted in alarm, as Sherlock then replied,

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson," and John said,

"_Oh."_

"Sherlock, dear-"

"What?"

John remained silent, staring in wonder, in shock.

"When were you going to tell me that John is alive?"

And then Sherlock looked up, frowning at Mrs Hudson.

"John isn't alive, Mrs Hudson," he said, and John winced as his voice cracked.

"But he told you to say thank you! And you did!"

And then Sherlock's eyes widened and John wanted to hold on to something in case he fell, but he couldn't, and John was suddenly overwhelmed with feeling.

"You can hear him too?"

John would have been sobbing if he could cry, throwing his arms around Sherlock if he could touch, but he couldn't and he just stared, feeling like his stomach had been turned inside out.

"I thought he was just a voice in my head. From his old room in my mind palace. I thought-" his voice cracked and he looked around the room, looking for him, John realised. "John, John are you there, John-"

"I'm here," he choked, walking forwards until he was in front of the mad genius. "I'm here, I'm right in front of you, I didn't think you could hear me, I-"

And then Sherlock reached up but his fingers went through John, and John wanted to cry even more as a single tear fell down that marvellous face with those bloody cheekbones.

"I'm a ghost, Sherlock, I've been, well, I've been following you, since I died, I waited outside Scotland Yard until you came and then I couldn't let you go, I- what in the bloody hell do I do, Sherlock? Why am I here, what-"

Sherlock stood up, and John wanted to wrap his arms around him, but he couldn't, but then he _could_, because Sherlock was touching him, his shoulders, down his arms, feeling him, and then he murmured,

"I can see you, John-"

John threw himself at Sherlock and Mrs Hudson gave them privacy as they collapsed into Sherlock's chair, clinging to each other as though their lives depended on it, and John became acutely aware that he _was_ alive, his heart was racing, his hands were warm, his body was hugging Sherlock's not sinking through, and John started to cry, he cried all the tears he'd meant to cry from the beginning and once he started, he couldn't stop.

"I think it's because you believed I was alive, once you heard me, you could touch me, and then-"

"I'm sorry John, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't tell you, well I did, but not properly, it's my fault, I knew what was going to happen-"

"Oh shut up, Sherlock, and just-"

And John's lips reached blindly for Sherlock's and they met in the middle, in a hot pool of bliss and desperate, blind love and John had thankfully finished crying otherwise it would have been God awful.

"John," Sherlock breathed, kissing his face, his nose, his cheeks, his lips, his neck. "John," he said again, and John grinned, pulling his head down for another kiss.

"Sherlock," he said simply, and they kissed again, unable to get enough.

And it didn't matter that John's bedroom had fallen through the ceiling, because now he could share Sherlock's, and Sherlock would most certainly not mind.

* * *

**I am so sorry, I think I butchered Sherlock totally, but yeah let me know what you think! Halloween fic ;D**


End file.
